


Fandom Advent!

by LauranicusPond



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universes, Christmas, Gen, M/M, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:59:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 11,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8714866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauranicusPond/pseuds/LauranicusPond
Summary: 25 (hopefully) different prompts, counting down to Christmas!





	1. Not Going Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> A little UMY short story, set about a month after Ross joins The Garbage Court

Trott cups his hands around his mug of tea and leans back against the kitchen counter. Ross is standing gazing out of the window, the cold December light through his horns casting blue onto the floor. Trott sighs quietly and sips his too-hot tea. He’s not sure that Ross is happy. He talks a lot, when prompted, but Trott has heard him murmuring to himself on a few occasions, and he just isn’t sure if Ross wants to be with them or not. Right now though, Ross is silent and still as stone. Trott makes his way over to stand beside him.

  
“What’re you looking at?” He asks quietly.

  
Ross starts and looks down at him.

“Oh. My – the church.” He points, the steeple just visible over the city rooftops.

“Oh.” Trott nods, and sips his tea again.

They stare out of the window together in silence. Trott wonders what to say.

“Do you miss it?”

Ross shrugs.

“Not really. There isn’t a lot to miss. Everything was gone a long time ago.” Ross points again, his fingertip tapping against the glass. “I stood up there a lot. At the top. You can see all over. It’s nice, in winter. All the lights.”

Trott looks at the steeple again, then carefully takes Ross’ arm.

“Tell me about it?” He says, guiding Ross away from the window and over to the sofa.

Ross’ skin is cold to the touch, colder than it usually is anyway, and Trott wonders how long Ross had been stood in the window before Trott had gotten up and come into the living room. Ross settles himself cross legged on the floor, leaning back against the sofa next to Trott’s legs. He tips his head back against the cushions to look backwards up at Trott.

“What do you want to know?”

Trott lifts his mug to his lips, considering. He wants to know it all. He wants to know how Ross was made and how his magic works, and how Smith broke him out of the church when as far as he knows, burning the place down shouldn’t have done anything to Ross’ bond with it. Trott’s eyes land on the tacky Father Christmas hat Smith had come home wearing a few nights before, abandoned on the kitchen island.

“Tell me about Christmas.”

Ross closes his eyes.

“Christmas was good. There was always singing, even... even when they stopped the bells for the war, the people still sang. And midnight mass. All the children so tired and excited. I liked to sit up, up on the roof. To listen to the bells and the singing.” Ross smiles, his eyes still closed. Trott feels the cool glass of Ross’ tail curl around his ankle. “I like the singing best of all. I sang even when it was just me.” He opens his eyes. “Do you sing at Christmas, Trott?”

“Not really... There wasn’t really Christmas where I grew up.”

“Under the sea?”

Trott nods, gently reaching to stroke Ross’ hair back.

“That’s right, sunshine.”

“It’ll be strange not being there. The church, I mean.” Ross says softly.

He unwinds his tail from Trott’s ankle again and carefully gets to his feet, going back over to the window to look out over the city. Trott stays where he is, watching Ross over the top of his cup, and thinking.


	2. In the Snow

The field ahead of them is pure, clean white. Not a mark upon it. It almost looks like it’s glowing in the dim, early morning light. Trott pushes his hands deeper into his coat pockets and glances over at Smith as he merrily strips off his shirt.

“You’re going to freeze.”

“Horses don’t wear clothes, Trott.” Smith laughs tossing his shirt at Trott’s head and sitting against the bonnet of his car to unlace his boots.

“They wear coats. I’ve seen them.” Trott looks away, back at the field. “Should I get you a horse coat, Smith?”

Smith huffs warm air down Trott’s neck, and Trott turns to him, reaching up to stroke his nose gently. Smith nuzzles into Trott’s palm and then nips at his fingers before stepping past him. The snow crunches under his weight as he takes the first few slow steps before cantering further into the field.

Trott moves to lean against the car, letting the lingering heat of the engine warm his legs. Trott watches Smith gallop across the field, his hooves kicking up snow behind him. He cups his hands to his mouth and blows on them, watching Smith until he’s just a dark shape against the white background.

Trott likes the snow, although not as much as Smith does. He likes the muffled quiet of it. It reminds him of being underwater. All Trott can hear is his own breathing and the trees that line the road they’d parked beside, creaking in the wind. It’s nice. Peaceful. Trott smiles to himself. He could do with some peace, he thinks. Maybe they could move north, to somewhere where it snowed more often. He wonders if Smith would want to go back.

Out on the field, Smith drops and rolls around in the snow, kicking it up around him before slowly getting up and trotting back over. Trott strokes his neck, combing his fingers through the course auburn hair of Smith’s mane.

“I think you make a very handsome horse, Smith.”

Smith whinnies softly, and then, somehow, Trott has his hand in Smith’s hair, and Smith is sliding his arms around Trott’s waist.

“Do you think I make a handsome man, Trotty?” Smith asks. Trott shrugs, smiling against Smith’s lips as he kisses him. Smith’s hands are cold on the small of Trott’s back.

“You’ll do.”


	3. Filming Something

Dust trickles from the jagged hole in the roof down onto the pile of rubble and tiles below. It’s dark, white streaks of moonlight illuminating the half buried figure sprawled on the dingy wooden floor. There’s a bloody gash across his temple, face pale beneath a mess of dark hair. He tries to roll over, his face twisting in pain. As he reaches for his camera, resting, somehow miraculously unbroken, a few feet away, the moon turns off.

“Okay, cut! What the hell just happened?”

The house lights on set go up and Smith groans, leaning back in his chair next to Trott. Around them, people move to reset for another take, and the lighting team start lowering down the HMI on its stand.

“This is going to take forever.” He mutters, resting his head against the pole of his boom mic. “They haven’t done a single take with sound yet today, it’s all been MOS. Why are we even here?”

Trott shrugs.

“We’re getting paid for on-set hours whether we do anything or not. Don’t complain.” Trott grins. “And you get to see your boyfriend.”

“I could be in bed, Trott. And he’s not my boyfriend.” Smith sighs, glancing over to where Ross is crouched, chatting to the actor on set as he reapplies the fake blood to his skin. 

“I don’t know why you don’t just introduce yourself.”

“And say what, Trott? Hi, I watch you fix people’s hair and I want to bang you?”

“You could start with ‘Hi, I’m Alex, you might know me as ‘guy that waves a microphone around’ or ‘guy that knocked over a shelving unit during a take’.”

“Once, that happened. Once. He might not even be gay.”

“You didn’t know I was gay and you still asked me out.” 

“Yeah, and now I can’t get rid of you.” Smith laughs, looking back at the set. 

Ross tucks his little bottle of fake blood and his paintbrush into the half-apron around his waist and stands just as Smith looks over. Ross meets his gaze and smiles, raising his hand in a little wave. Smith does it back. 

“Clear the set, please! First positions everyone, we’re going for another take – with moonlight throughout this time!”

Ross hurries off the set and away to sit with Kim, the other make-up artist. Smith watches him, still smiling. He sits back in his chair and turns to whisper something to Trott. Trott lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers in a wave at Smith, a huge grin on his face. Smith rolls his eyes and gives Trott the finger. He’ll talk to Ross later, he thinks. If they ever finish this shoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the freelance-sound crew on independent films AU literally no one asked for!
> 
> For those who are interested, MOS is short for 'Mit Out Sprechen'. It gets written on the clapperboard of takes that won't be filmed with audio. Why the german, I have no idea.  
> An HMI is a big light used for filming.
> 
> I did film at uni, and used to boom for my friend who was the sound mixer. We spent a lot of time doing nothing on set some days, and I just kinda liked the idea of Trott as the mixer and Smith as the boom-op. God only knows he's tall enough


	4. Law Enforcement

Sergeant Christopher Trott wonders just how he’d gotten to this point. Half drunk, watching films he didn’t care about, on the sofa of a man he barely knows. In the past few weeks he’d been dumped, promoted, and then relocated from the city out to a sleepy little village full of nothing but farmers and an over-zealous neighbourhood-watch. He spins his empty beer bottle in his hand, barely paying attention to the television in front of him, the credits of some action movie or other rolling up the screen.

“That film is amazing!” PC Ross Hornby flops back against the sofa, turning his head to grin at Trott. “The bit, where he fires his gun in the air and goes ‘aaaahhhh!’? Off the chain.” 

“Uh, yeah.” Trott smiles unconvincingly. “Off the chain.”

“Were you even paying attention?” Ross sighs, blinking blearily at him.

Trott shrugs, and Ross pouts at him. Honest to god pouts. Trott’s gaze flicks down to Ross’ lips. He’ not sure he’s had enough to drink to deal with this. 

“I was thinking about the missing sw-” Trott starts, but Ross reaches out and pats his knee clumsily. Trott definitely hasn’t had enough to drink to deal with this.

“You need to turn off that noodle of yours.” He says, gently tapping Trott’s forehead.

“I don’t think I know how.” Trott sighs.

“I can...” Ross wets his lips and Trott tries hard not to stare. “I can show you how?” 

Trott meets Ross’ gaze, and for a moment, neither of them move. Trott can feel his heart thumping in his chest. He nods, very slightly, just catching a glimpse of Ross’ answering smile before their lips are pressed together. Trott feels Ross move the beer bottle out of his hand and hears it clink to the floor as Ross’ tongue swipes against his lips. Ross’s arms slide around him as his tongue presses into Trott’s mouth. It’s clumsy, and Ross’ mouth sort of tastes like beer, but it’s good, it’s so good. 

Ross slides them down until Trott is under him, pressed against the sofa cushions. It’s not really big enough for just Ross to lie on, let alone the pair of them, and Ross half slides off as he tries to get his hand between them to unbutton Trott’s shirt.

“We could... bed?”

Trott nods, huffing a laugh at Ross’ eager smile, and letting him pull him up off the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot Fuzz AU? I don't even know


	5. Live Music

The sun is warm against Trott’s skin, his head pillowed comfortably against Ross’ bare chest. The two of them are sprawled together on a blanket in the park, enjoying the warmest day of the year so far. Ross’s hand plays idly in Trott’s hair, combing his fingers through his fringe. Trott can’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed.

Somewhere in the park, amidst the quiet chatter of the people around them, Trott can hear someone playing a guitar. He can’t quite make out what the tune is, but whoever’s playing is good. After a couple of minutes, the song ends, and the music stops. Trott blinks his eyes open, squinting in the sun as he rolls over and sits up. Ross makes an unhappy sound next to him.

“Come back...” Ross doesn’t open his eyes, just reaches for Trott. “Comfy...”

Trott brushes his fingers over Ross’ cheek, smiling fondly.

“Just a second...” He turns, looking around the park for the guitarist. It takes him a second but he spots him, cross legged in the shade of one of the trees not far from them. As Trott watches, he fiddles with his guitar, plucking a string and retuning it carefully. He pushes a lock of auburn hair, loose from his thick French braid, behind his ear, and starts to play again. Trott smiles. He’s kind of cute.

“Trott...” Ross whines, pushing himself to sit up, “We were napping.” He says a little sadly.

Trott kisses Ross’ cheek apologetically.

“Sorry, sunshine.” He nods toward the guitarist under the tree. “I was just enjoying the music.”

Ross turns to look at the guitarist too, and it takes him a second to recognise the tune.

“That’s,” He smiles shyly at Trott, “He’s playing our song.”

Trott smiles back, tipping his head and listening closely for a second before singing along softly.

“’Cause I’m in love and it’s a sunny day...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little sunshine to warm us all in this cold winter. Ross and Trott's song is 'Good Day Sunshine' by The Beatles, and I like to imagine Smith's playing this version of it - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SL049AnA2FY
> 
>  
> 
> (also sorry this is late, my shifts at work are weird this week)


	6. (Not so) Fast Cars

“Do you think we could bang on the back seats before this traffic starts moving again?” 

Trott snorts, leaning his head back against the headrest. 

“I dunno mate, we could try for the world’s quickest quickie,” he grins at Smith, “We could hang the certificate above the bed at home.”

Smith laughs, drumming his fingers against the top of the steering wheel before leaning forward to rest his chin on them. He’s not sure they’ve moved more than a mile in the past hour. 

“It would pass the time at least. This is boring as shit.” 

Trott turns his head to look out of the window. They move forward slightly, shifting into line with the car on their left. Trott grins.

“He’s cute.” 

“Huh?” Smith looks over at Trott, then at the driver of the car next to them. “Oh, he is.” The traffic moves a little again before they have to stop, and the other driver sighs, dropping his head back against the headrest in frustration. “You should say hi.” 

Smith smiles his biggest, shit eating grin, and presses the button on his door to open the passenger side window. 

“Smith! It’s fucking freezing!” Trott tries to close the window, jabbing at the button on his side. He glares at Smith.

“Oops, the window locks are on... that’s a shame.” Smith smirks, looking over Trott’s shoulder toward the other car and waving. “Hey!”

Trott turns to see the other driver half-hiding a smile as he opens his window.

“Hi.”

“I’m Smith.” Smith leans over and sticks his hand out of the window for the other driver to shake. “That’s my boyfriend, Trott.”

“I’m Ross.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, I struggled with this one because I know literally nothing about cars, fast or otherwise.
> 
> Imagine they flirt for a bit, find out they're both headed to the same place, and then get together eventually. I'm just too tired to write that today


	7. First Christmas Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filth. This is filth.

Smith wakes first. Their bedroom is dark and quiet, and it takes him a moment to orientate himself, nuzzling his face into Trott’s chest. _Christmas._ He feels a little shiver of excitement, thinking of his gifts for Ross and Trott waiting under the tree downstairs, and the visit to his family with them later.

Across from him, Ross has his cheek pressed into Trott’s other side. Smith will never get over how lucky he is to be able to wake up each morning next to the two people he loves most in the world. He reaches over to brush his fingers against the fading hickey on Ross’s neck, a reminder of their date with Sips a few days before. Ross opens his eyes, blinking sleepily at Smith. Smith cups his cheek gently and Ross smiles.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Smith whispers.

Ross shakes his head slightly.

“Merry Christmas,” He murmurs.

“Merry Christmas.”

Ross glances up at Trott and carefully leans over him to kiss Smith gently. Smith lets him lead, parting his lips when Ross’ tongue swipes across them. They kiss slowly, and Smith loses himself in the touch of Ross’ lips against his, and Ross’ hand on his cheek, thumb moving lazily back and forth. Trott shifts beneath them, and Ross pulls back slightly, pressing his thumb gently between Smith’s lips. 

“Wanna give Trott the best kind of Christmas wake-up call?” Ross asks quietly, grinning when Smith nods and dragging his thumb out of his mouth.

Smith shifts down Trott’s body, ducking under the covers and moving as carefully as he can between his legs. He slides one hand up Trott’s leg, and the other up Ross’, laughing quietly at Ross’ jolt of surprise. Ross holds the cover up for a second.

“Your hands are fucking freezing!” 

Smith shrugs and leans forward, keeping his eyes on Ross as he mouths over the front of Trott’s boxers. Ross watches him, wetting his lips, then winks at Smith and drops the covers back down. Smith can just make out Ross’ hand sliding over Trott’s chest in the gloom. 

He hooks his fingers into Trott’s boxers, pulling them down enough to get his mouth onto Trott’s skin, licking slowly up the underside of his cock. Ross’ leg hooks half over Smith’s back as he presses himself closer to Trott. Smith feels surrounded. It’s good, he thinks. He ignores his own growing arousal, sliding his mouth down around Trott. 

Trott’s hand tangles in his hair, pushing Smith’s head down further and holding him there as he rolls his hips, fucking Smith’s mouth slowly. It’s not long before Trott’s tugging his head up a little, giving Smith room to swallow as he comes with a soft groan. Smith sucks him through before moving back and licking his lips. He shifts towards Ross, curling his hand around Ross’ cock and starting to jerk him. 

Smith moves up enough to rest his head against Trott’s stomach, jerking Ross firmly, rough like he knows Ross likes it. He leans forward, closing his mouth around the head of Ross’ cock and sucking hard, working his hand over the rest of him. Ross hips stutter as he comes, his cock twitching between Smith’s lips. Smith pulls back to lick him clean, working his tongue over Ross’ skin until the covers are pushed back. 

“Come here, Smith,” Trott says, shifting to the side to let Smith crawl between them and sprawl out on his back. 

Trott kisses him fiercely, his hand back in Smith’s hair, little tugs sending spikes of pleasure through him. Ross closes his hand around Smith’s cock, stroking him as he nips at Smith’s neck. Smith squirms and gasps against Trott’s lips as Ross smoothes his thumb across the head of Smith’s cock.

“Want us to make you come?” Ross asks.

“Oh... oh please, please...” Smith begs softly, arching up off the bed a little.

“Well, as you’ve been such a good boy for us, Sunshine,” Trott grins, nodding to Ross, “I think we’ll let you.” He bites Smith’s earlobe gently.

Ross’ hand moves faster, and Smith moans, coming over Ross’ hand and his stomach. Ross stretches out next to him, wiping his hand off on Smith’s chest.

“Ross...” Smith whines, “Gross...”

“It’s your come!” 

Trott hides his laughter in Smith’s shoulder.

“Shower and then presents?” Trott asks, untangling himself from the covers and getting out of bed, stretching. 

Smith kneels up, crawling to the edge of the bed and pulling Trott down for a gentle kiss. 

“Merry Christmas, Trott.” 

“Merry Christmas, Smith.” Trott smiles, looking over at Ross, “Merry Christmas, Ross.”

“Merry Christmas, Trott. And God bless us, every one.” Ross grins, slapping Smith’s bare ass and running off toward the bathroom before Smith can catch him.


	8. On the Beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early in my version of the UMY-Verse, when it's just Smith and Trott.

Smith watches Trott from the car. He’s a dark silhouette at the edge of the water, wrapped up tight in his skin and Smith’s leather jacket. The drizzle obscures his view for a moment, but then the wipers clear it away and Smith can see Trott again. He looks so small against the water that stretches out to the horizon. Smith bites at his thumbnail. He doesn’t like the ocean, and as far as he’s aware, the ocean doesn’t like him. 

Trott tugs Smith’s jacket closer, his skin draped around him like a cloak against the weather. His hair drips, hanging loose around his face, whipped this way and that by the wind. He looks up as the rain get a little heavier, and then glances back at the car a little self-consciously. Turning back to face the sea, Trott curls his fingers into the edges of his skin and stretches out his arms. His skin catches the wind, billowing out behind him. He takes a deep breath in, tasting the salt, and the ozone, and lingering smoke from Smith’s jacket. Trott yells. Screams into the wind until the rain gets too much and he turns and runs back up the pebbles to the car.

Trott slides into the passenger seat and tugs the door shut behind him. Smith tosses a towel into his lap.

“Okay?” He asks.

Trott takes his time to answer, busying himself with towelling his hair. 

“Yeah, Sunshine. I’m okay.” Trott smiles slightly at Smith. 

For once, it doesn’t feel like such a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just need to scream at the Sea, you know?


	9. In an Airport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is vaguely set in Three's amazing VC-verse, which, if you haven't read, you should.

Ross is bone tired. His neck aches and his back feels stiff from being cramped up in his seat for the whole flight. He rubs his eyes, trying to focus on the baggage carousel. He spots his bag and pulls it off, thumping it onto the ground beside him. It takes him a few tries to get the handle out. Ross drags it behind him, trudging along with the crowds of people headed toward the exit. 

Ross sighs. He’s going to have to get a taxi home. He pulls his phone out of his pocket as he walks and turns it back on. It vibrates with a few email notifications, but nothing else. No texts, no messages. Smith and Trott are at Smith’s family’s house for the holidays, he knows they’re not back until after Boxing Day. He wasn’t meant to be either. He stops, apologising to the woman behind him who bumps into him, and takes a shuddering breath. He’s not going to cry, he thinks. Not here. Let him get home first.   
Ross drags his bag behind him again. They haven’t texted. They probably think he’s as much of a fuck up as his family do. Ross wishes he could have held his tongue, wishes he could have just kept his mouth shut and ignored barbed comments about his life like he usually did. Ross ignores the groups of people waiting, holding signs, and flowers, and gifts. He keeps his head down and starts making his way to the exit. 

“Ross!” 

“Hey, Ross!” 

Ross looks around in confusion, before spotting Smith running toward him. He’s wearing a ridiculous holiday sweater that looks like an elf costume. Trott’s a few feet behind him in matching Santa version. Smith throws his arms around Ross and hugs him tightly, and Ross hugs him back, breathing him in. The gentle touch of Trott’s hand on Ross lower back makes Ross pull away from Smith slightly.

“You’re here.” Ross manages before his voice cracks, and he has to stop talking for fear of crying.

“And you’re coming home. C’mon.” Smith picks up Ross’ bag. Ross smiles gratefully, rubbing his eyes again.

Smith steps ahead of them, leading the way through the airport. Trott walks alongside Ross, his fingers brushing Ross’. The lump in Ross’ throat threatens to choke him.

“I fucked up, Trott.” Ross murmurs. “They know now. They all know about me. I really fucked up.”

Trott looks up at him.

“It’ll be okay, Ross. We’ll make it okay.” He smiles slightly. “At least you get to spend Christmas with us. Smith’s mom got you a sweater too.”

Smith turns, grinning. 

“You’re the reindeer.” 

Ross laughs softly, and lets Trott guide him out into the cold December air.


	10. Dragons

Ross swallows nervously, curling his fingers around the grip of his sword. The forest had been disorientating enough during the day, but now that it’s night, he’s completely lost. He can’t even see the stars through the leaves to navigate himself. Ross takes careful steps forward, feeling for obstacles with his feet as he moves. Ross catches a glimpse of movement to his left and freezes. 

He can hear his blood rushing in his ears, and holds his breath, watching as the small, sleek, dragon prowls out in front of him. He wonders if he could take it. How quickly could it get to him, he wonders. Faster than he could draw his sword? Maybe not. It steps closer. Ross has no idea if it even knows he’s there, but it must. Surely it must. Ross keeps as still as he can. 

It steps closer again, and Ross’ fingers flex on his sword, but before he can draw it there’s a rough hand over his mouth, and another tight on his wrist. Ross starts in surprise and struggles, but he’s pulled firmly back against a broad chest and held there. The dragon sits down in front of him, head tipped to the side like a dog. 

Ross’ sword is pulled from him, and he faintly hears it crash into the undergrowth a few feet away. His arms are tugged roughly behind his back, and the hand over his mouth slides down over his throat. He takes a breath in to yell, but the hand digs into his neck and he chokes a little.

“It’s not worth screaming.” A voice says, low and dangerous in his ear. “You’re already fucked.”


	11. A Trip to the Emergency Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less an emergency room, more minor injuries. Time moves slower in minor injuries waiting rooms.

“I can’t believe I got bit by a dog.” Smith says, again. “Dogs love me!”

Trott rolls his eyes. 

“A puppy, Smith. You got bit by a puppy.”

“Why would he bite me? We were playing!” 

“Maybe he thought your finger was a sausage.” Trott says, shifting in his uncomfortable plastic seat. “It was barely a bite anyway, Smith, more of a nibble.” 

Smith holds his hand out dramatically toward Trott. His middle finger is swollen and a little bloody, little teethmarks obvious on the skin. 

“Does that look like a nibble, Trottimus? It’s my favourite finger too.” 

“Luckily for us both, Smith, you have a spare.”

Smith huffs, stretching his legs out in front of him. 

“Why don’t you read something to distract yourself from the terrible pain you must be in?” Trott leans forward to shift through the pile of magazines on the table. “Look, they’ve got a copy of Horse and Hound from October Nineteen-Ninety-Three.” 

“Which one of you two is Alex Smith?”

Smith and Trott both look up at the nurse in scrubs who’d called Smith’s name. He’s tall and pale, with dark hair. Smith gets to his feet. 

“That’s me!” 

“If you’d like to come with me, Alex, we’ll have a look at that bite for you,” the nurse smiles, “I’m Nurse Hornby.”

Smith grins delightedly at Trott, flicks him the middle finger with his good hand, and bounces off after Nurse Hornby.

Trott shakes his head fondly and folds his arms to wait for Smith to come back.


	12. Midnight Snacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late!

Ross rubs his hand idly up and down Trott’s back as he sleeps. He has his face pressed to Ross’ chest and his hand curled lightly in Ross’ shirt. Ross wonders how he ended up with Trott on top of him, instead of his boyfriend, but he’s not hugely complaining. On the TV, some celebrity chef pulls a cake out of the oven, and Ross stomach rumbles. 

“Smith...” Ross says softly, reaching out with his foot to nudge Smith’s shoulder. Smith had hogged the other, longer, side of their L shaped couch for himself the moment they’d finally gotten home from filming. “Smith, get me a snack?” 

Smith bats his foot away from under his pile of blankets, and wriggles down further so just his head is poking out. Ross grins, reaching out again and flicking Smith’s ear with his big toe. 

“Get me a snack, Smith?” He flicks at Smith’s ear again.

Smith turns and nips at Ross’ foot, teeth grazing his toe and making Ross shiver unexpectedly. Smith smirks at him. 

“Please, Smith? I’m trapped under a Trott.” Ross pouts hopefully. 

“Ugh, fine, stop whining.” Smith laughs, untangling himself from all but one of his blankets, and making his way to the kitchen with it draped around his shoulders like a cloak.

Trott mumbles and turns his face the other way, nuzzling Ross’ chest. Ross smiles fondly, stroking his hair until Smith comes back with a plate of biscuits. 

“Here,” Smith holds the plate out. 

Ross grins and opens his mouth. 

“Really?” Smith laughs, but crouches down next to him and holds the biscuit to Ross’ lips so he can eat it. “Honestly, the things I do for you.”

Smith stays where he is, feeding Ross biscuits until the plate’s empty. Ross leans forward carefully to press a kiss to Smith’s lips. 

“Trott’s hair is full of crumbs. Good luck.” Smith grins, standing and flopping heavily back onto his end of the sofa.

Trott sits up sleepily, blinking at Ross. 

“How long was I...” Trott pushes his hair off his face and frowns, confused.

Ross glares at Smith.


	13. Someone Else's Wedding

Smith finishes the end of his glass of champagne and sets it on the table, leaning his chin on his hand. Out on the floor, couples dance together, and Trott sways with his back to Smith, his arms around his new wife. Smith watches them, and tries hard to ignore the pain in his chest. He’s happy for them. Hadn’t he said so in his speech? 

“Do you love her?” 

Smith looks up in surprise as the dark haired man sits down next to him.

“Uh, I – What?”

“Just thought I’d ask the blunt question.” 

Smith laughs softly and looks down at the table. Fuck it.

“I uh... no. I don’t love her.” Smith fiddles with his glass. “I love him.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” 

“That sucks, mate,” He leans back in his chair. “I’m Ross, by the way.”

“Alex.” Smith tells him, dragging his eyes away from Trott, laughing and spinning his bride. 

“Wanna get out of here, Alex?” Ross asks, laughing when Smith raises his eyebrows, “Not in a... pick up line, sort of a way. This hotel has a huge garden, if you fancy a walk?”

Smith glances back at Trott once more, then nods and stands.

“Alright. But no funny business.”

Ross laughs, gesturing toward the French windows that lead out onto the lawn.

“Cross my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then they live happily ever after and bang in the bushes...


	14. Breaking and Entering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this one (which is why it's late). If in doubt, write UMY.

Ross bounces excitedly, bat slung over his shoulder while he waits for Smith to pick the lock. The wind whips his scarf around and he grabs it with his free hand, smoothing it back down onto his chest. He doesn't really need it, doesn't really feel the cold that much, but it had been a gift from Trott, so he wears it. The soft wool feels good against his skin. Crouched beside him, Smith curses. 

"I could just..." Ross taps the door handle gently with the bat. 

"I can do it... My hands are just cold." Smith replies, pushing the bat away. "Give me a minute."

Ross shrugs and goes back to keeping watch. Smith fiddles with the lock a little longer before it finally snaps open and he stands up, pushing the door ajar. The office inside is dark, all the computers turned off for the weekend. Smith grins. 

"You know the drill, Ross." He says, pulling his hood up and stepping inside. 

Ross grins and tugs his hood up too, following him in. Smith heads for the main office, and Ross watches him go, standing by the door. There's a little polar bear ornament on the desk nearest him, and Ross pockets it before swinging his bat round in an arc across the desk. The monitor cracks and dents, and Ross brings the bat down again onto the computer tower, smashing the casing. He grins, gleeful in his destruction, and moves onto the next desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More like Entering and Breaking...


	15. Sports

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quidditch AU? AKA The only sport I know anything about

Trott shifts to the edge of his seat, staring transfixed at the players on the pitch. The score has been equal almost the whole game, the Bristol Bludgers scoring just as fast as the Falmouth Falcons. Bristol's Seeker, Richards, lies almost flat against her broom as she chases after the snitch. Trott can almost taste the tension in the air.

Out of nowhere, a Bludger swings toward Richards, and Trott, along with the people around him, jumps to his feet. Richards shrieks and spins, clinging to her broom. The blusher heads toward her again, and the crowd gasps. Smith, one of the team's Beaters, swoops down and smacks it away to Hornby, who in turn smacks it toward one of the Falmouth team. Trott beams, watching them fly together to high five before peeling away to opposite sides of the pitch.

After the game - a close win for the Bristol Bludgers - Trott waits outside the pitch. He tugs his school scarf up around his face, and pulls his coat a little closer. It's cold without the crush of the crowd around him. The changing room doors open, and Hornby and Smith walk out together. 

"Hi, um, excuse me!" Trott stands a little straighter, taking a couple of steps closer. "I'm, um, hi!"

"Hi!" Hornby smiles, raising his hand in greeting, "Nice scarf, I was a Hufflepuff too."

"Oh, I know! And Smith was Slytherin, right? It was in an interview you did in Witch Weekly!" Smith grins at him, and Trott can feel his cheeks heating up. "Sorry, uh, I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed the game today. I've wanted to see you play for ages but I've always been at school when there've been home games."

"Well, I'm glad you got to see us today." Smith says. "You picked a good game to come to, we actually won!"

Trott laughs. 

"Do you want us to sign something for you..." Hornby falters, "Oh, I don't know your name, sorry!" 

"I'm Chris. Chris Trott. Most people just call me Trott though. Um, I actually had something I wanted to give you guys, if that's, if that's okay?" They nods, and Trott reaches into his bag and pulls out two wrapped parcels. "I'm not good at wrapping, sorry... Uh, blue is for you, Ro-" Trott trails off and holds the parcels out, blue for Hornby and Green for Smith. 

He watches nervously as they unwrap the thick, wooden bobble hats, knitted with a pattern of brooms and Bludgers. 

"Oh wow!" Hornby grins, and pulls his on immediately. 

"Did you make these?" Smith asks, turning his over in his hands. 

"Yeah, I did," Trott tells him, fiddling with his bag strap. 

"This is really awesome," Smith grins and pulls it on. "No more cold training ears."

Hornby pulls his down over his ears and smiles as Smith puts his arm around his shoulders. 

Trott beams, breath catching in his throat for a second as he looks at them. 

"I'll... I'll let you guys go now, I guess, I just... I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for just... Being who you are? And being so open about how you're... How you're together and how you're..." He gestures at them helplessly "How you're not straight? It means a lot." Trott bites his lip, looking down "I think it helped my mum a lot with me being..."

"Not straight?" Hornby finishes. 

Trott nods, and then there's a pair of arms tight around him, hugging him, and then another pair around the other side. They stand together for a moment before Hornby pulls away, and Smith stands back. 

"I'm glad." Smith says. "I'm really glad."

Hornby just nods, and slides his hand into Smith's. Trott smiles slightly. 

"I should let you guys get off now. It was really, really great to meet you. Finally." 

"It was nice to meet you too, Chris Trott. Come to another game some time, okay?"

Trott nods and smiles.

"I'll try. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." 

Trott turns and walks away, smiling to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think in this, Ross and Smith are probably about mid to late twenties, and Trott is probably 15/16 and very much crushing on his Quidditch heroes.


	16. Waking up in a Foreign City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo - mentions of drinking, being drunk, and throwing up. Just in case

The room is quiet, and dark, and it takes Ross a second to remember where he is. It takes him another second to realise how hungover he is. Ross pushes himself out of bed and takes the few steps to the bathroom, grateful for once for small hotel rooms. He pisses, and then stands at the sink, blinking at himself in the mirror. He looks like shit. Their collective plan to beat jetlag by drinking seemed like a good idea at the time. Ross wonders how Trott and Smith are feeling. He remembers them all matching drink for drink for a couple of hours, then they’d ended up in some sort of Tiki-themed bar. Then the night becomes a blur. 

Ross runs the cold tap, and splashes some water over his face, then leans down and rinses his mouth out. He’ll brush his teeth, and shower, and hope that makes him feel a bit less dead. Maybe have some breakfast, although the idea of food makes him a little queasy. Ross pushes the bathroom door open and then stops. There’s a man in his bed. He’s bundled up in half the sheets but there’s very clearly a man in Ross’ bed and Ross has no idea who he is or how he got there. Shit. 

Ross moves forward as quietly as he can and snags his shorts from the floor, grabbing his phone out of his pocket before stepping backwards into the bathroom and closing the door again. His phone still has half its charge, thank fuck. He calls Smith, fidgeting with the glass by the sink while he waits for him to answer. It rings out and goes to voicemail. He tries Trott instead, chewing on his lip.

“Hello?” 

Ross frowns and pulls his phone away from his ear to check the screen.

“Smith?” He asks quietly

“What, Ross? I think I’m dying, I need to sleep more.”

“Why are you on Trott’s phone?”

There’s a pause, and Ross can hear the sound of sheets rustling, and then faint footsteps and a door opening and closing.

“Trott’s more fucked than I am.”

“Okay...” Ross whispers, getting up to peep out of the bathroom. The man in his bed hasn’t moved. 

“I appreciate the quiet but why are you whispering?”

“Uh...” Ross puts the toilet seat down and sits on it, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Did you guys see me leave with anyone last night?” 

“I don’t remember much after the body shots to be honest, Ross.”

“Body shots?!” 

“Why? Are there mysterious dick pics on your phone again?” Smith laughs. 

“There’s a man in my bed.” Ross says. “I have no idea what his name is.”

There’s a pause, and then Smith starts laughing. 

“Ross! Nice!”

“You’re not helping! What do I do?” 

“Ask him his name!”

“I can’t just...” Ross bites at his lip, “Look, ask Trott if he remembers anyone?”

“He’s not really- ” 

“Please, Smith?”

Smith sighs, and Ross can hear him getting out of bed. The sound on the other end of the phone changes, and Ross can tell he’s on loudspeaker. There’s a loud knock, and then a door opens.

“Hey, Trott, Ross wants to ask you something.”

“What the fuck, Smi- ” Trott starts. 

Then there’s a distinct sound of throwing up. Ross groans softly, his own stomach turning in sympathy. He can hear Trott panting, and then there’s a clunk, and running water, and then Smith murmuring quietly. 

“I’m gonna look after Trott, text me when you’ve spoken to your new boyfriend,” Smith teases, “Good luck!” 

He hangs up.

Ross sighs, putting his phone down next to the sink. He goes back to the bathroom door and peers out again. The man in the bed has rolled over, and Ross can actually see his face. He’s older than Ross thought he would be, but not by a lot. Ross leans his head against the door frame, studying the man. 

“Enjoying the view?” The man asks. 

Ross might not remember the man, but he remembers his voice. He remembers murmured suggestions in his ear at the Tiki bar and whispers of praise against his skin while they were in bed. Ross can feel his cheeks heating up. The man in Ross’ bed opens his eyes and grins. He pushes the covers down a little and pats the bed next to him. Ross hesitates in the doorway.

“I uh...” The man looks at him expectantly, “I don’t really... I don’t remember your name.” Ross says slowly.

“Well shit,” The man laughs, “I hope to make more of an impression than that!” 

“I remember- ” Ross stops and gestures, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek. 

“Chris,” The man in his bed tells him, “But you were adamant that that was too weird because you had a friend named Chris already, so, Sips.” 

“Sips...” Ross says, coming back to the bed slowly, and perching on the edge of it. “It sounds familiar...”

“You said it a lot last night.” Sips grins, reaching to put his hand on Ross’ bare thigh, “You’re kinda loud, Ross.” His hand moves up, fingertips pushing under the fabric of Ross’ boxers, and Ross’ breath catches in his throat. 

“Yeah, Sips is definitely... definitely ringing a bell now...”

“I mean, he could be if you ask him nicely.” Sips grins, cupping Ross through his boxers for the briefest of moments and then sitting up. 

Ross laughs, and lets Sips kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've ever written Sips. I hope I did him justice


	17. Drinking in a Mediocre Restaurant Bar

Smith leans against the bar. He’s starting to wish he hadn’t come, but a free dinner is a free dinner, and he gets two drinks of his choice from the bar. As long as they’re on the short and specific list that his boss had emailed around with their menu options that is. It’s a big party this year, they’d invited every branch down rather than just his, and the first half hour had been a blur of putting faces to voices he’d only ever heard on the phone before. A shorter guy with brown hair walks up next to him and flashes him a smile before ordering a drink from the bartender.

“Pretty sure that wasn’t on the pre-approved drinks list...” Smith says, sipping his beer. 

“It is if you know the bar staff.” The guy says, taking his drink from the bartender and giving him a wink. The bartender just grins and pockets the drink token before moving away down the bar.

“You’re Chris, right? I recognise your voice.” 

“Yeah, though outside of work everyone just calls me Trott.” Trott leans against the bar next to Smith and looks out over the party. 

Now that the food has been eaten, and the music turned up, the party has dissolved a little. Smith can see their CEO, Sips, leading a conga line around the outside of dance floor, and nudges Trott. 

“How much do you think he’s had to drink?”

“He’s the boss, he can do what he wants.” Trott says, “No drinks tokens for the big man. Mind you, he did pull me aside earlier to complain to me about how the vegetarian option is ‘always a fucking risotto’.” 

“He complains about it every year!” Smith laughs, “I don’t know why he doesn’t just ask them to make something else.”

Trott grins at him, and Smith drains the last of his beer. Out on the dance floor, a member of HR dances inappropriately with someone from Accounts. Smith rubs his face, and glances at Trott. He’s cute, Smith thinks. Cuter than he thought he’d be. Fuck it, it’s Christmas.

“I don’t suppose you want to go somewhere else?” Smith asks, “If you’re not busy... knowing the bar staff?” 

Trott looks up at him, tipping his head. There’s a long moment, and Smith can see Trott considering him. He tries to stand up a little straighter. 

“Go on then,” Trott finishes his drink, “Let’s get out of here.” 

Smith puts his glass on the bar and smiles wide. Trott does the same, giving a little wave to the bartender and then gesturing toward the cloak room. 

“Besides,” Trott says as Smith helps him into his coat, “Maybe later you can get to know the bar staff a little better too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the Bartender Ross? The Bartender's Ross.


	18. Making Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross makes gingerbread. Smith 'helps'.

Ross crouches down, peering at the faded numbers around the dial on the oven. He turns it on, adjusting it to 190c, or as close as he can get it. He hopes this oven is okay, the apartment they’re in at the moment isn’t that fantastic compared to the one they’d been in before. But Trott had said they needed to move, so move they did. 

Ross stands and goes over to the scales. He carefully measures out the 300 grams of flour he needs, scooping a little back into the packet, and dumping the rest into a bowl. Smith comes in while Ross is rummaging through their cupboard for spices, and slides his arms around Ross from behind. 

“Whatcha doin’?” Smith asks, hooking his chin over Ross’ shoulder.

“Gingerbread,” Ross tells him, humming at the scratch of Smith’s stubble against his cheek. 

“Didn’t you make that yesterday?” Smith steps back to lean against the counter. 

Ross finds the ginger and cinnamon and puts them next to the bowl of flour.

“Sort of. The dough has to chill, so I’m making more dough now and then I’ll bake the dough I chilled yesterday while this one chills, and then bake this tomorrow.”

“That’s a lot of gingerbread.” Smith watches Ross scoop out a teaspoon of each of the spices and mix them in with the flour. “What’s that?” He nods at the half teaspoon of white powder Ross is adding.

“Baking Soda...” Ross shakes in a little salt, then a little more. He wishes he could measure out the salt properly, but last time he’d just ended up with salt all over the floor and a broken salt cellar. “And that’s salt.” Ross grins at Smith. “But I’m sure you know what that is.”

Smith laughs, tucking a cigarette behind his ear and reaching over Ross for the kettle.

“Tea?”

Ross nods, getting the milk out of the fridge for Smith while he fetches the butter and eggs he needs. He scoops out 115 grams of butter, give or take, and puts it in a clean bowl, and then adds 175 grams of sugar. Ross picks up the bowl, cradling it as he starts to beat the butter and sugar together with a wooden spoon. He turns to look at Smith, busy making them tea. He’s just in boxers, despite the relative coldness of the apartment, and Ross resists the urge to pull them down with his tail. Smith turns and catches him looking. His eyes light up and he reaches forward to scoop some of the butter and sugar out of the bowl with his finger. Ross bats him on the back of his hand with the spoon before he can get any.

“Smith! It’s not done!”

“It’s the best part!” Smith licks the blob of mixture off the back of his hand. “You know, that’s not the first time someone’s hit me with that.” He grins.

Ross pulls a face.

“I hope you washed it.”

Smith laughs, snagging the sugar and stirring two teaspoons into his tea. He hops up onto the counter to watch as Ross cracks an egg into the butter and sugar mixture and mixes it in. He   
sprinkles a little of the flour mixture in too.

"Stops it splitting...” He explains, stepping in front of Smith and prodding his legs. “I need to get in the cupboard.”

“I’m not stopping you.” Smith grins, sipping his tea. 

Ross sighs fondly and crouches down. Smith puts his legs over Ross’ shoulders, bending one leg so he can rub the back of Ross’ neck with his foot. Ross closes his eyes for a second, enjoying the touch.

“Your feet are really cold.” 

Ross grins up at Smith and presses a kiss to the inside of his knee. He slides Smith’s legs off him and stands up, putting the battered tin of treacle on the counter, and opening the bottle of vanilla extract. He carefully pours half a teaspoon out and then adds it in. Setting the bottle to the side, Ross picks up the treacle and digs his fingers under the rim of the lid to pry it open. It’s dark, and sticky, and smells like burnt sugar. He sucks his finger idly while he finds their set of brightly coloured plastic cup measures. The recipe says about 85 grams but Ross has learnt his lesson with treacle. It’s far easier to pour it into a cup and dump it back out then to scrape it out of a measuring bowl. 

Ross unhooks the 1/3 cup from the plastic ring and pours the treacle into it over the bowl. He lets it overflow a little before righting the tin and setting it back down. He upends the plastic cup and watches the treacle fall, scraping as much of it out as he can. Ross can see Smith eyeing up the cup out of the corner of his eye.

“Here. You can lick this.” Ross says, holding the cup out to Smith, who takes it eagerly.

“You’ve said that before.” Smith grins.

“Filthy.” Ross shakes his head, taking the butter and milk back to the fridge. 

He mixes the treacle into the egg, butter, and sugar mixture, stirring until it’s thoroughly combined, before picking up the bowl of flour mixture and slowly adding it. 

“Why do you do that in a separate bowl at the start? Why not do the... treacle part and then measure the flour and stuff in after?” 

Ross shrugs, working the mixture together. 

“That’s just what the recipe said to do.” 

When Ross is happy with the dough, he divides it into two, flattening them into disks and wrapping them in clingfilm before taking them to the fridge, swapping them out for the already chilled dough.

“‘Here’s one I made earlier!’” Smith laughs.

“Huh?”

“It’s from this kid’s TV programme,” Smith says, licking the last of the treacle from the cup, “Called Blue Peter. They’d do this bit on how to make things, but they’d never really finish it on screen, just reach under the desk and pull out a finished one, and say ‘and here’s one I made earlier.’” Smith shrugs, watching Ross sprinkle flour out onto the worktop. “I always thought it was a bit of a cop out really.”

Ross nods, still not really understanding. He unwraps one of the disks from its clingfilm.

“Can you put baking paper on the trays please, Smith?” Ross asks, dusting the top of the dough with flour, and starting to roll it out a little thinner. “And pass me the cutters?” 

Smith hands Ross the ring of Christmas shaped cookie cutters, and then measures and rips paper to fit on their two baking trays. Ross deftly cuts out the dough and lays the shapes – Christmas Trees, Bells, Stockings, Stars, and Holly Leaves – out on the paper. Smith marvels at him, sometimes. How did they end up with a gargoyle making gingerbread in their kitchen? Ross bends to put the cookies in the oven and Smith smiles. A gargoyle with a fantastic arse too. They’re lucky, he thinks. 

“How long do they cook for?” Smith asks when Ross stands back up.

“Ten minutes or so. Until they’re set.” Ross grins. “Plenty of time for you to wash up.” 

“Ross!” 

“I’ll clean up the tops, you just have to wash. And also to dry.” Ross says. Smith pouts at him. “You get gingerbread in the end though.” 

Smith sighs heavily, then goes over to the sink and turns the tap on. Ross hugs him from behind and presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“Good boy.” Ross murmurs in his ear. 

Smith snorts, and grinds back against Ross’ crotch. 

“Later.” Ross says, pulling away, “When Trott’s home and the baking is done.”

The washing up doesn’t take long, and Ross makes a glaze from icing sugar and water while the cookies cool. He drizzles it back and forth over them, ignoring Smith’s comments about how it looks like something else white and sticky. 

When Trott gets home, Smith is sprawled on the sofa, asleep, with Ross on the floor next to him. The apartment is dark apart from the lights from the Christmas tree and the flickering light of the television playing whatever Ross is watching.

“Hi Trott!” Ross calls, smiling. “I made gingerbread! It’s on the counter.” 

Trott smiles tiredly, dropping his bag and going over to the kitchenette. He picks up the plate of biscuits and brings it over, setting it on the coffee table and sitting down next to Ross. 

“Hi Ross.” Trott helps himself to a biscuit and taking a big bite. He smiles, sighing happily. “Mm, Ross. These are really good.”

“I’m glad you like them.” Ross beams, his tail curling around Trott’s waist as he puts his arm around Trott’s shoulders.

Trott leans his head on Ross’ shoulder, chewing slowly. He finishes his mouthful, and falls asleep before he takes the next bite. Ross gently takes the biscuit from his hand and sets it back on the plate, wriggling to get a little more comfortable before going back to watching television.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my actual recipe for gingerbread. It's really good and I make it every year, several times.   
> I think Ross has probably been with Smith and Trott just over a year by this point in my UMY timeline.


	19. Spies/Espionage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late, I've lost all track of the days, I'm sorry!

Smith stares at himself in the mirror, and barely recognises the person staring back at him. His bright hair has been dyed dark, as have his eye brows, and he's clean shaven for the first time in years. He drags his hand through his hair and pulls it into a low ponytail at the base of his neck. Almost time. 

They've been planning this for months. Training him and preparing him, filling his head with his new persona. He's a computer technician. Brought in to help implement a new running system to the business. Smith leans close to the mirror and carefully puts in the coloured contact lenses, dark brown to match his hair. His skin looks paler than usual, the bags under his eyes more obvious. Smith sighs. 

Patting down his pockets one last time, Smith checks he has his new ID, and that the flash drives stitched into his jacket lining aren't too obvious. He picks up his rucksack and pulls it on, then heads out of the door of the flat he’ll probably never come back to. Smith walks to the bus stop, waiting. They could have at least given him a car, he thinks, but that's just more paperwork to be done.

Smith leans his head on the bus window, watching the world pass by slowly. He's glad this isn't a long game. Get in, get what they need, get rid of any evidence, get out. Smith’s tired. Tired of the whole business. But he has a contract to fulfil, and until he's done, he's stuck.


	20. Present Shopping

Smith looks left and right nervously and steps through the door of the shop. The front of shop is lined with shelves of lingerie, a mannequin in a ‘Sexy Santa’ dress right in the middle. This isn't as bad as Smith had thought it would be. It's like Marks and Spencer's only with more crotchless panties. Smith steps past the lingerie display and moves further into the shop, immediately coming face to face with a male mannequin in a red, fur trimmed thong, a pair of candy cane striped leather cuffs, and not much else. Not so like Marks and Spencer's then.

Smith steps closer to look at the thong. Is it funny enough for a gag gift, he wonders, or is it just kinda cliche? He rubs his face. He hates Secret Santa, let alone _Dirty_ Secret Santa. At least he got Ross, and not some random member of HR he barely knows. Turning, Smith comes face to face with a display of sex toys, and takes a step back instinctively, almost bumping the mannequin.

“Need any help?”

Smith spins around again, looking for the source of the voice. He peers around a _very_ realistic looking dildo and sees a man waving at him from behind the till. He waves back, brushing the dildo with his hand and drawing it back quickly. The man behind the till stifles a laugh.

“I'll be right over.” He says, grinning, and lifts the side of the counter up so he can get out.

Smith shoves his hands in his pockets. The man’s wearing a black t-shirt with _The Triple-X Factor_ on the left of his chest, with _Chris_ printed under it. Smith realises he's staring just as Chris reaches him.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Chris asks.

“I'm… I’m looking for a present for someone. It's not for me.”

“Okay,” Chris nods. “What kind of things do they like?”

“I'm not actually sure…”

“Well, were you thinking of maybe underwear?” Chris gestures at the mannequin, “or a toy? Or we have other… Accessories?”

Smith can feel his cheeks heating up.

“Um… Would you suggest anything?”

“It depends really. Are you looking to try new things with your partner or-”

“It's not for my partner!” Smith interrupts, “I don't… We’re doing a Dirty Secret Santa at work and I need-”

“Oh!” Chris’ face lights up with a mischievous grin, “A gag gift! I can definitely help with that.”

Twenty minutes later, Chris is bagging up an inflatable boyfriend and several pairs of festively themed underwear. Smith has gone over the budget _slightly_ but he doesn't think it'll matter. Chris holds the bag out to him, then presses the button on the receipt printer and rips off the piece of paper it spews out.

“Let me know,” Chris says, grabbing a pen and carefully writing on the blank receipt, “If you need any more help.”

Smith takes the piece of paper and looks down at the neatly written mobile number on it.

“Oh, I will."  



	21. Playing Dress-Up

Trott smooths his hands down over the full skirt of his blue dress, and smiles at himself in the mirror. The Yogs Christmas party being fancy dress this year had given him the perfect opportunity to indulge. Trott can hear Smith and Ross laughing in the other room as he leans forward to adjust his blonde wig, straightening out the headband. Perfect. He’s pleased with his make up too, considering how seldom he actually wears it. 

Stepping into his clear heels, Trott pushes the door open and steps out of his room, taking careful steps as he gets used to balancing. Moving into the living room, Trott can't help but laugh at the sight of Smith and Ross, dressed to the nines in hideous matching frocks. They're festooned with bows and gaudy jewellery, and their make up is so spectacularly over the top that Trott feels practically underdressed. 

“Holy shit, Trott!”

“Wow!”

Trott curtsies, smiling. 

“I could say the same about you two.” Trott laughs.

“No but, you look amazing, Trott.” Ross says, stepping forward and going for a kiss before Trott dodges out of the way. 

“Don't wreck my lipstick! Besides, I can't think anything sexy about you when you're dressed like that.”

“Ugly sister is right, right Trott?” Smith smirks. 

Ross wheels around to face Smith. 

“We’re dressed the same!”

“Come on, girls.” Trott says, extending white gloved hands. “Cinders has a ball to go to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Ross and Smith in full Pantomime Dame get up though, and Trott as a Pretty Princess
> 
> I'm not going to get the rest of these up before tomorrow, but I'll have them all up by New Year, hopefully.


	22. Vampires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buffy AU
> 
> (Warning for a little bit of vampire hypnotism at the end there)

Trott takes a deep breath, looking up at the abandoned warehouse. He flexes his fingers around the comforting weight of Mr Pointy, and steps inside. They’ve been watching this place for weeks, noting down comings and goings, deliveries, and Trott swears if he hears one more pun from Kim about ‘stake outs’ he’s going to be killing someone other than vampires. He stops, listening for any movement, before continuing along the dark corridor. Somewhere in here is, according to Trott’s Watcher, Sips, one of the worst vampires he’s heard of. Alexander the Bloody. Smith, now, although Sips wasn’t sure why he took that name until Hannah pointed out it was probably just his surname. Sips is kind of oblivious sometimes, Trott thinks.

In one of the rooms further down the corridor, Trott can hear singing. He flattens himself against the wall and starts to edge closer. The floor here is wet and slippery, and Trott has to move carefully. He shifts along the wall keeping an eye on his feet. It’s not until he reaches the edge of the doorframe that he realises the singing has stopped.

“Playing hide and seek out there are we?”

Trott tenses. Fuck. He takes a step forward, standing in the doorway. Smith’s about halfway down the room, grinning at him. He’s a lot taller than Trott thought he’d be. 

“You caught me.” Trott says, trying to keep his voice steady.

He darts forward, swinging his stake at Smith’s heart, but Smith dodges it easily and throws a punch back at Trott. Trott jumps back, and then spins, kicking Smith hard in the chest. Smith staggers backwards, but manages to block Trott’s next few punches. Smith lands a punch against Trott’s jaw that makes Trott’s vision blur, and quickly parries Trott’s responding punches and kicks. Smith steps back, and Trott barely has a second to catch his breath before Smith kicks him between the legs. Trott crumples in pain. He feels like all the wind has been knocked out of him. Smith straddles him and pins him to the ground.

“You know, they really don’t make Slayers like they used to.” Smith smirks. “Maybe the next one won’t be quite as easy to kill.” 

Trott struggles under him, grappling with him uselessly for a moment. Fuck. Fucking fuck. 

“Smith?” A voice echoes out from the darkness at the end of the room, and both Smith and Trott turn to look.

A tall, deathly pale man steps toward them, his head tipped to the side curiously. 

“Ross, love, you’re supposed to be resting…” Smith says, almost tenderly, and Trott looks up at him in confusion.

“I got bored, Smith. The stars are ignoring me. They stopped talking to me one, by, one.” Ross says sadly. He comes closer to stand next to Smith, looking down at Trott. “Who is this? Have they come for tea?”

Smith grins, getting to his feet and yanking Trott up with him, shoving him up against the wall and holding him there. 

“He’s the Slayer.” Smith says. 

Ross drapes himself against Smith, nipping at Smith’s jaw with a playful growl. Smith closes his eyes, and Trott struggles again, but Smith’s grip is too strong for him. Maybe instead of blindfolding him and making him catch basketballs, Sips should have made him work out, Trott thinks. Fuck.

“He’s so little.” Ross says, reaching out to tap Trott’s nose with his fingertip. “Can we keep him, Smith?”

“I was going to kill him,” Smith grins, “Get myself a hat-trick in Slayer slaying.” Ross pouts and pulls back, whining, and Smith sighs. “Do you promise to look after him properly?”

Ross nods eagerly.

“Didn’t I look after you when you were all new and learning, Smith? Didn’t I teach you all about the world?” He says, sliding his arm back around Smith’s waist, smiling at Trott.

“I suppose turning a Slayer is just as fun as killing one.” 

Trott swallows, and pushes off the wall with as much strength as he can. Smith loses his grip and for a moment, Trott is free and running. Then the world tips sideways and Trott hits the ground. He scrambles to get back up but there’s a heavy foot on his shoulder pushing him down and kicking him over onto his back. 

“Naughty boy…” Ross coos, crouching down next to Trott and curling his hand around Trott’s throat, “There’s no need to be frightened, little birdy. I’ll take good care of you. Just look at me, deary…”

Trott glances at Smith, and then up at Ross’ eyes. They’re nice eyes, Trott thinks. Blue. Nice blue eyes. Trott gazes up at Ross, and Ross smiles. Trott smiles back.

“That’s better now, isn’t it?”

Trott nods dumbly, and Ross taps him on the nose again and then moves out of his field of vision. He can just see Smith, arms crossed over his chest. Smith smirks, and Trott arches up in pain as Ross sinks his teeth into Trott’s neck. Trott’s vision blurs again, and goes black.


	23. Service Stations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Service Stations - the UK's shitty version of Roadside Diners. Where a bag of crisps costs £1.50 and there's always a Burger King or a McDonalds but never both.

The carpark is almost deserted, and Smith picks a spot as close to the service station doors as possible. He turns off the engine and rubs his eyes, suppressing a yawn as he reaches over to shake Ross awake gently. Ross bats at him, trying to turn over before the seatbelt digs in, and he blinks in confusion.

“Huh?”

“Coffee, food, then your turn to drive.” Smith says, undoing his seatbelt and getting out of the car. 

The air outside is cold, and Smith takes a deep breath to try and wake himself up a little. Ross climbs out sleepily and stretches with a little whine. 

“Last stop before home?” He asks, reaching for Smith’s hand and lacing their fingers together as they head inside. 

“Yeah,” Smith says, looking around, “Can you grab us some food? I need to piss.” 

Ross nods, leaning to kiss Smith’s cheek gently before letting go of his hand and making his way over to the empty food court. There’s a McDonalds, a Costa, and a couple of shops with sandwiches and drinks. Ross decides on the Costa, picking out a couple of toasted sandwiches and passing them over to the bored looking barista. She smiles tiredly at him as she hands him his coffees, and wishes him a merry christmas. Ross smiles back, carrying over the tray to a booth and settling into it just as Smith appears.

“Nice piss?”

“One of the best.” Smith drops down opposite Ross, pulling a coffee toward him. Ross pulls it back.

“That’s mine. Yours is decaf.” Smith stares at him, agast. “You can nap while I drive, Smith. Then carry me to bed when we get home.” Ross sips the coffee Smith had tried to take. “Anyway, it’s mine now, I’ve had some.” 

“Fine.” Smith grumbles, taking the other coffee, and opening one of the sandwiches. 

They settle into quiet as they eat, and Ross takes the chance to flick through his phone. He thinks about texting his mum to let her know that they’re nearly home, but it’s late. Later than he’d thought actually. 

“Did we get stuck in traffic or something, Smith?” Ross asks, looking up. 

Smith’s asleep, face down, head pillowed on his arms. Ross smiles fondly, and is about to reach over and wake him up when he hears someone sob, quietly. For a moment, Ross thinks it’s Smith, but then Smith snores at the same time as the person sobs again. Ross slips out of the booth, looking around. The barista behind the counter is reading a book, so it isn’t her. He walks along the row of booths, peering into them until he gets to the last one. The man inside has one hand on his phone, and the other hand over his face as he cries.

“Um, are you okay?” Ross asks.

He looks up in surprise, hurriedly wiping his eyes and pushing his hair out of his face.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, sorry, was I - did I disturb you?” 

Ross shakes his head, looking at the man in concern.

“Do you want a coffee or something?” Ross rubs the back of his neck, shrugging, “Can I… help?” 

Ross can feel his cheeks heating up as the man gazes at him. There’s a long pause. Ross can hear Smith snoring gently in the quiet. 

“I got dumped.” The man starts, his voice cracking. “Dumped on Christmas day. How pathetic is that?” 

Ross sits down, shifting along the booth and fumbling a crumpled tissue out of his pocket as the man starts crying again. He holds it out to him.

“That’s shit.” Ross hesitates before patting the man’s hand a little awkwardly. 

The man laughs softly, wiping his face with the tissue. 

“I’m a mess, sorry.”

“Hi a-mess, I’m Ross.” Ross says without thinking. 

That gets a real laugh, and Ross smiles.

“I’m Chris.” 

“I’m sorry you got dumped, Chris.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lost track of this one a little bit and didn't really know where it was going, but I hope you like it. They get together in the end, probably.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back to my hometown for the first time in 6 months over Christmas. It was nice, but a bit strange.

The front door closes quietly behind him. Trott pulls his beanie down further over his ears and shoves his hands in his pockets. It’s cold, the wind almost stinging his cheeks as he starts to walk away from the house. He reaches the end of his road, and then the next one, and then the next. Trott’s not even sure where he’s going. 

He passes the row of shops and takeaways, all closed up for the night. Even the drunken kebab-buyers are asleep this late. Trott walks on. He lingers by the school, by the open gate into the playground, and takes a step inside. Trott glances at the dark windows of the school building and then takes another few steps onto the concrete. Little’s changed since he was here last. There’s a new climbing frame, and the painted hopscotch games look brighter. The field still has the black ring of the bonfire on it though. Trott remembers November nights spent with his parents and with his friends, watching the fireworks, and the flames, and eating burnt sausages with too much ketchup on them. He stands a while longer before leaving. 

Trott stops, eventually, sitting down on a damp wooden bench in the park. He hunches his shoulders and tucks his chin into the collar of his coat. It’s so quiet. The metal chains on the swings clank in the wind, but there’s no cars, no people, no nothing. The city he calls home now is so loud, so constantly moving. This town seems so calm in comparison. 

This place holds memories for him. Playing games and running and screaming, and, later, hand holding and kisses and whispers of love. Last time he was here there’d been an argument, and the end of a relationship. Trott shivers, making fists in his pockets. He stands and starts to walk again. 

He ends up two streets away from his childhood home, looking up at a house almost identical to his parents’. There’s a light on in the porch, and in the bedroom above the front door. Trott chews on his lip. This is a bloody stupid idea. He bends down and scoops up a few pieces of gravel from the driveway. His fingers are numb. He should just go to bed. Trott throws a stone gently at the window. Then another. Then another. Then the curtain is pushed out of the way, and there he is.

They stare at each other for the longest minute of Trott’s life. Then he points downwards and disappears back behind the curtain. Trott waits, dropping the gravel and pushing his hands back into his pockets. He scuffs his boots through the stones. The door opens quietly, and he steps outside, smiling.

“Hello, Trott.”

“Hello, Smith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think maybe Trott and Smith had an argument about what to do about their relationship before they both left home for Uni, and ended up breaking up and then drifting apart.


End file.
